Chapter Four
Grayson clutched the silky strands that clung to his fingers and wondered if he was dreaming.
She had been stroking him again, but not just his brow, and there was nothing maternal about it.
He had felt her unmistakable touch on his back, on his buttocks, even between his legs.
Yet the expression on her face bespoke only shock and innocence.
This was no dream, but a nightmare of heat and caresses that came to nothing except a throbbing groin, a thudding head, and the frightened face of a lovely young woman. Uttering a foul curse, Grayson fell back upon the pillows and heard her scramble away, only too eager to escape him.
She was back in a moment, trying to force some cold tea on him, when the only thing he wanted to taste was her. Pushing away the obnoxious stuff, he turned over and buried his face in a pillow that held her scent. The darkness drew him in, and he went, eager to lose himself in its depths.
Even the nightmare was preferable to a reality such as this.
Tom hitched his trousers and walked into the empty kitchen, his stomach growling at the lack of breakfast smells. Usually, Kate was baking bread long before now. And there was always a little something ready for him. Where was she?
Abruptly he remembered where she had been when he left her last night, and he hurried toward the servant’s stairway, taking the worn steps as fast as his aged legs could carry him.
He didn’t even stop at Kate’s door, but went straight to her father’s old room and walked in, without bothering to knock.
His fears, vague and formless, faded away as soon as he saw her.
She was asleep in a chair beside the bed, curled up like a kitten, her dark curls tangled, her lovely face serene.
The smile that formed at the sight of her disappeared when he glanced at the man stretched out face-first on the bed.
Barely covered by a pile of blankets, the fellow was a sprawling mass of hard muscle.
He didn’t look like any marquess.
Tom’s eyes narrowed at the broad expanse of naked male back while he contemplated a quick trip to London. If he couldn’t take this gent with him, then maybe he could at least put his ear to the street and see what he could hear about the real Wroth.
Yes, he thought, scratching the stubble on his chin, after breakfast he would do just that. But meanwhile, his belly was rumbling, and since he didn’t want to disturb Kate, he backed out of the room, pulling the door shut silently behind him.
In a few minutes, he was down in the kitchen, lighting a blaze in the big fireplace and slicing some of yesterday’s bread for toast. Lucy liked hers just so, with a dab of butter and jam. And if she didn’t get it, they would all suffer.
He had just poured the tea when she arrived, a vision in one of her mama’s dresses that she had reworked into a new style. Not that he knew what was what with ladies’ gowns, but Lucy always looked lovely, even if she spoiled the effect with her manners sometimes. Like now.
“Where’s Kate?” she asked in a petulant voice.
“Up tending his nibs.”
Lucy frowned. “You would think that man was more important to her than her own family. See how she is neglecting us?”
Tom grinned at her inclusion of him among those of her exalted heritage, but hid his amusement from her. She would not like to be reminded that she had just adopted a coachman. He placed her plate before her and was rewarded with one of her beautiful smiles.
“Oh, bless you, Tom!”
He brushed off the careless statement as he sat down to join her. Although the eggs he had fetched from the henhouse were cooked as well as he could manage, they were not as tasty as any of Kate’s dishes, and his thoughts drifted back to the girl upstairs.
“She’s got that wounded-pup look again,” he muttered between bites.
“Who?” Lucy asked, absently, as she reached for her cup.
“Why, Katie, of course.”
Glancing over at him with some surprise, Lucy drew herself up regally. “Katie may not be a great beauty, but at no time has she ever resembled a canine.”
“No! Katie don’t look like a dog. She has that expression she gets whenever she brings home one of her injured curs or a bird with a broken wing or that one-eyed cat.
” Tom shuddered and looked around, half expecting the mention of the feline to conjure up the creature.
The furry devil was well-known to steal your meal when you weren’t looking.
Once convinced the cat was not lurking about, he turned his attention back to Lucy. “You know how she must take in every sorry creature that she comes across.”
Lucy assumed a thoughtful expression, then frowned slightly, as if the effort had pained her.
“Well, I suppose he is rather like all her pets in that he is hurt, but she will see him back to health and then he shall be on his way.” She lifted a pale hand and dismissed the stranger with a languid wave.
Tom paused over a mouthful of eggs. “I don’t think it will be that easy, Miss Lucy.”
“Whyever not?”
Tom laid down his fork. “Remember how she looked when that pigeon flew away? And that lamb with the bad leg disappeared?” At Lucy’s reluctant nod, he continued. “Well, this fellow is a lot bigger than any of those dumb animals. What do you think she’ll do when he takes off?”
“Rejoice, as I will,” Lucy said, not bothering to hide her distaste for the gent. “Really, it is not at all the thing to have a strange man recuperating in Papa’s room, and when he is sufficiently recovered, Kate will demand his departure.”
Tom shook his head. “No, I tell you, a man’s a bit different from a dog or a bird. What if she gets attached to him? What happens then, when he up and leaves her?”
“I am sure I don’t know what you are suggesting, Tom,” Lucy said, obviously bored with a conversation that did not focus on her. Having finished her breakfast, she pushed her plate aside and rose to her feet. “But I refuse to worry my head about Kate. She always knows what she is doing.”
Tom let her leave the dishes to him without a protest, but he could not agree with her assessment of the situation.
As usual, Lucy could see no farther than her nose.
Nor could she be bothered about any problems. But Tom could feel trouble brewing.
He could feel it in his bones the moment he set eyes on the big fellow Kate shot.
“Whatever happens, it won’t be pretty. I can tell you that,” he muttered to himself. “Not pretty at all.”
Kate bathed him again. Sliding her cool cloth along his hot skin, she tried to suppress the guilty warmth that spread through her at the feel of him beneath her fingers.
It was a vain effort, as was her attempt to keep one eye on his face, just in case he suddenly roused to awareness, for her attention was diverted by the muscles bunching under her touch.
So engrossed was she in her task that when the door opened, she started, snatching up the cloth furtively as she turned to greet Tom, who stood frowning near the threshold. He took a few steps into the room to survey the scene and then scowled disapprovingly at the man in the bed.
“Ye gods, Katie, let me put a nightshirt on the fellow, at least. It isn’t seemly for him to be lying there half-naked, and you caring for him.”
Glancing down swiftly, Kate was relieved to see that the covers were neatly pulled up to Grayson’s waist. She had washed and hung out his breeches earlier, but Tom must not have seen them or he would be complaining about more than the marquess’ bare chest.
She sat up. “And just who is going to tend to him, if I do not?” she asked, unmoved by Tom’s frown.
He glanced at Grayson’s bronzed torso and mumbled something about the man not looking like a marquess. Then he turned back toward Kate. “I will,” he offered glumly.
Kate snorted. “I can imagine that easily enough. You would have the man drowning and the mattress ruined in no time. No, Tom. He is my responsibility, and I will see to him.” Realizing that her fingers had tightened possessively around the cloth in her hand, she released them, dropping the soft material into the nearby bucket of spring water.
“Well, if you can tear yourself away from the lad for a moment, I have something that needs discussing,” Tom said, grudgingly giving way on the issue of Grayson’s treatment.
Kate’s relief at his capitulation was brief, for she recognized the gruff tone in his voice that bespoke ill news.
Her heart, already burdened by so much, sank anew.
What more could she face? What more could they all handle?
Yet somehow she managed to nod slowly. And with one last look at the man in the bed, she followed Tom through the doorway.
Lucy was waiting in the drawing room. It was her habit to prepare tea for these little talks, just as though they were enjoying nothing more than a pleasant visit. And that usually was Lucy’s sole contribution to the exchange.
Taking her seat, Kate received her cup and saucer and hid a smile at Tom’s desperate attempt to balance the delicate china on his knee. Then she thanked Lucy for her preparations and, without delay, glanced toward Tom, who had called this session.
“I went to London this morning after finishing my breakfast,” he said grimly.
Kate felt a surge of panic at his words.
Why had he gone without telling her? And what had he learned?
Were the Bow Street runners after her even now?
Kate’s fingers trembled as she sought to control herself.
She would need her wits about her now, more than ever, and she drew a deep, steadying breath as she listened to the coachman.
“I sniffed around our man’s neighborhood, and I can tell you one thing. He’s Wroth all right.”
Tom’s disgruntled admission caught Kate by surprise. Of course, the man was Wroth. Any fool could see that.
“He is not!” Lucy said, tossing her auburn curls indignantly. “I have told you before. That old, ugly fellow upstairs is not my Wroth.”